


Hard To Handle, Ain't That So

by regulsh



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Backstage, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: Foolish, for him to expect John to be faithful, after all these years. For him to want it at all.
Relationships: Elton John/John Reid
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Hard To Handle, Ain't That So

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



> i was writing this short little thing and said 'hm this is really just for [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods), huh'! read on if you too enjoy miserable people having miserable sex. title from elton john’s ‘meal ticket’

Night two of two in this godforsaken city and Elton is fit to be tied, fed up with the shitty venue and the crowds getting more boozy and sloppy and inattentive as the week wears on. His dressing room is horrendous, and he’s seen his share: velvet drapes that are moth eaten and thick with dust, a woebegone ficus drooping in the corner, the walls yellowed and thinly grimed after decades of chain-smoking touring acts crudding them up. The shows are selling like shit, and Elton put a moratorium on ticket sales updates from terrified staffers; them being scared of him or John, he didn’t know or care. 

Moreover the problem, John. Who, minutes ago in the corridor, Elton saw with his hand nearly down the trousers of an enchanted stagehand, who jumped when Elton stomped past them to his dressing room and slammed the door, John’s eyes tracking his the whole time. The band duly scattered when he entered and Elton set about profoundly sulking, alone amongst the filth.

Three glasses of scotch is Elton's typical leisurely pre-show menu, which tonight he sprinted through before giving it up entirely and turning to glugging sourly from the bottle. The stage manager came by for his half hour call and almost left without her head, so he’s certain the stench of his temper is fully permeating the building. He tapped out a jagged but generous line on the particle board to fuel his righteous anger and snorted it, rubbing his nose, frantic and spasming, before catching sight of himself in the mirror, and then.

He doesn’t quite remember what happens then. All he knows now is that he’s heaving in his dressing room chair, the ficus spilling soil from its tipped-over pot, dust thick in the air, and his heart is pounding. The drinking glass twinkles in the dim light, delicately curved shards wobbling and gleaming on the ground. He drops his head in his hands, sweaty and limp, overcome with too much feeling in his chest.

Foolish, for him to expect John to be faithful, after all these years. For him to want it at all. There was a moment in time when it all felt right, dalliances and flirtations, part of this new and wondrous lifestyle John had ushered him into. One late night they spent holed up in the residence with their crew, spinning the new Kinks album and delighting in thick rails. John instead snorted delicately from a fiddly ornate snuff ring that he explained was from a fervent admirer who, knowing John’s appetites, had gotten for him as a gift. “Precious,” Elton had cooed, only half teasing, wriggling his fingers into his side, feeling loose and cool and uncaring. “And are you spaffing on him too, hm?”

It didn’t, of course, stop Elton from sealing his mouth around the ring. Ostensibly to lick up the powder left on it, but that didn’t account for the long minutes he spent laving John’s finger with a wet tongue, before a too-drunk Bernie said too-loudly, “Fucking hell,” as John tugged him up, eyes black with want as they stumbled out of the room. It was only days later, when he saw John asleep naked on the couch with pink arsecheeks, and when their secretary wouldn’t meet his eye for weeks after until he was suddenly replaced, that it occurred to Elton that he might, in fact, care.

The worst part is—

The worst part is that the idiot in the hall was gorgeous, the kind of boy that he liked, that they both liked. Floppy-haired and blond and stylish, rail thin in his leather trousers as his leg slid against John’s. The image of their embrace burns in his mind's eye, a gutting swoop of misery and heat in his belly. In the mirror Elton brushes and palms his thatch of hair to the front, sweeping it to the side with trembling fingers before dropping his head again, groaning.

He misses John entering his dressing room entirely, until the tips of his boots poke into his field of vision. They’re white leather, pristine, and Elton spits, nearly missing them. “You fucking ponce.”

John looms over him like a schoolmarm, still annoyingly sober as far as Elton can tell. He’s deadly still in shirtsleeves, ring-studded hands clenched imperiously on his hips. “Get the fuck out of here,” Elton snarls.

“No. You’re on stage in fifteen minutes, and you’re half dressed.” Elton’s sequinned patchwork trousers are done up, his shirt slopped around his shoulders, his jacket in a pile and his shoes kicked off in a fit in the corner.

“Sherlock Holmes, I daresay!” Elton bangs the arm of the chair with his fist. “What an astounding observation. What other breakthroughs have you made in the case, do tell.”

“Can you get your fucking act together please.” John swipes the bottle of scotch from the table, twisting the cap on, drops it tidily in the bin. “Time to go.”

“Not happening. I’m staying put.” Elton folds his arms, gestures wildly at the empty room. “In here, with all the people who love me.”

Elton grimaces, obstinate as John collects his jacket from the floor, tosses it in his face. He feels sunken miles beneath the ground, beaten down, longing for the tour to be selling better, or to be fucking over. To be out of this sweaty shithole of a room. His eyes rake over John, neat as a pin and more handsome than one, and a different kind of longing scrapes through him.

“Like hell you are.” John lifts his shoes next, deposits them roughly at his feet. “Making me play sodding housekeeper. I could crack you across the room. Selfish fucker.”

“I don’t think you will,” Elton sneers. “If you put your hands on me then it better be to choke the bloody life out of me. Or to get me off. That’s it.”

“Like you deserve either.” John’s voice slices through him, and Elton can see a muscle in his forearm ticking, impatient. He wants to touch it. He _wants_ him, more than anything. Why doesn't, why can't, John want him at all?

Elton puffs his chest, rousing slightly. “No, I think I do deserve it. If you want me out there you’ll have to work for it.” He spreads his legs, lascivious. “Get me off and I’ll go on.”

John doesn’t blink, like he didn’t even hear him. “Cut the act. Let’s go.”

“Shan’t.” 

“You must.”

“Won’t,” Elton argues. “Won’t move a muscle. You get out there and explain to the lovely people of Stockholm why we’re delayed.” He adopts a horrible brogue: “‘Sorry everyone, I couldn’t be bothered to suck someone’s cock for the first time in my pathetic life, so no show tonight.’”

“We’re in Norway,” John corrects him dully. 

“I do not fucking care,” Elton announces loudly. “The whole of Scandinavia can fuck right off, they won’t hear a note from me until you do your goddamned job.” He sprawls back in his chair, undignified. He bets, truly bets, that John won’t take the chance to berate him or strike him so close to showtime. He’s above all else focused on the business, keen to protect his investments up to a point. (Never mind that Elton is still trying to find what point that is, precisely, and pays in shouting matches and nasty bruises every time he guesses wrong.) He waggles his knees, waits, as John stands flat footed by the doorway, and it makes Elton grin more evilly. 

He relies on John for so much, and the black magic between them tips in John’s favor most every time; he can’t believe it never occurred to him to wield this small amount of power. Mostly because John’s affection, when offered, is _always_ done so conditionally, and at the most perplexing times; and even that’s been scarcer and scarcer, these days. Early on before a big television appearance, the set all rounded and fun, sparkling clean, Elton was nervous enough to spit and John slid a hand over his crotch behind the curtain and murmured, “Do well and your cock’s in me within the hour,” and the curtain lifted and John had already gone. On rubber legs, Elton walked to the piano, alone under the lights, dumbfounded and positive he was tenting his trousers for the world to see. John always so adept at wriggling out of any impropriety, any blame; Elton, less so.

Emboldened by John’s silence, Elton says, “ _Now_ , please. I’m not stepping foot on stage until my cock’s been down your talented throat.” Spins his finger, makes a little whistling noise.

“You’re that desperate for it?” The grit of glass under John’s boots as he approaches makes Elton’s teeth clench. “Where anyone could walk in?”

“That's extraordinarily rich, coming from you,” Elton jabs, jutting his chin up.

“Better to see you slovenly, old, pissed—”

“Do you have the time to waste on all that?” Elton interrupts him, bored.

He resists the urge to flinch as John surrounds him, bracing for a blow, but John is reliably sex-crazed, as evidenced by his fumbling at Elton’s elaborate zip, pressing his own crotch full against the edge of the chair. Elton spreads his legs to accommodate him, smug with booze and success, as John thrusts against him and hisses, “Fucking slag.”

“I learnt from the best.” John’s clever hand works at his flies, tugging raggedly. “You better be quick about it,” Elton comments, unbothered until John’s hand draws out his soft prick and strokes him and he lets out a true moan.

John’s lips twitch meanly at his wantonness. “There we go, princess. What a treat for me. Come on now.”

Elton thrusts gracelessly, little helpless jerks as John spits in his hand and wanks him, the chemical high stabbing through him, electrifying every touch. John’s not holding back, his touch as firm and generous as it is at the best of times. Elton can’t help himself, letting out little _oh oh_ s, relishing the swarming heat. He lolls back in the chair, guttural moans escaping from his lips.

Slowly, Elton blinks his slitted eyes open to see John looking at his watch, wrist cocked, still tossing him off with the other hand before he huffs and kneels on the gritty linoleum. The mouth that closes around him is exquisite, tight and expert as John bobs his head.

“Oh, yes.” The chair creaks as Elton leans back, closes his eyes again, tips his hips to get his dick further into John’s mouth. “That’s right darling, worship my cock,” Elton slurs, magnanimous.

He thrusts into John’s mouth again and again, groaning. Sounds float up from below that Elton believes are grunts of pleasure but he realizes, after a moment, is in fact John’s muffled laughter.

“Oh, come on,” Elton grouses. He deflates, sinking into the chair and feeling himself flag, miserably half hard.

John’s still sniggering around his dick, and he is a spectacular cocksucker but not enough to make up for this. Elton pushes John off of him, bitter. “Fuck off, fuck off,” he spits, attempting to rise out of the chair.

“No, behave, alright—” They genuinely tussle for a moment, Elton fighting him; mid-coitus John is not a beast to be interrupted. Teeth scraping at Elton’s jaw, pushing him into the chair with a hand pressing his shoulder back, and suddenly he’s got one hand around Elton’s cock and one in the fine tufts of hair on the back of his head, and it’s the latter grip that freezes him in his seat, afraid to struggle, move in any direction. “I’m not fucking finished with you,” John says darkly. “Stop it now.”

John is undeterred at Elton’s whines, hand moving on his cock that’s now slicker with saliva, biting at Elton’s neck. “Hush. Remember when we were on tour, before? In Sao Paulo?”

Elton shivers as John, with a wicked tongue in more ways than one, recounts it from years ago. He remembers. They were high out of their minds, John having just done some fantastic deal with the South American promoter and they fucked on the balcony to celebrate, insane and in love and exposed and uncaring on the fiftieth floor, the humid night air wrapping around them, alive on their skin, John sat on his lap keening as Elton hauled him down on his cock again and again. The grip he's pushing into now is tight and hot and slick, just like then. Elton gratefully slips into the warm bath of memory, both of them kind and young and so much _more_ than what they are now. Or maybe less, there was—less of them, then, less armour, less complicated by time. He feels himself growing harder, encouraged as John licks at his ear, a soft awed smile creeping onto his face. 

John’s answering smile is much less generous. “Shh, that’s good.” His knee nudges up against his balls, and Elton ground his sac into the solid weight of it. “Dinner that night, too, and a cruise the next day. You always treat me so well.” His skilled hand fondles Elton’s cock like a plaything.

“And do you know what I remember most? Gets me so fucking hard thinking about it now, you have no idea,” John says, and Elton can feel it, John digging into his side.

“What,” Elton breathes.

John’s lips are nearly touching his ear when he whispers, “Fucked the bellboy the next morning in our bed. He wailed like you wouldn’t believe, noisy thing.” Elton lets out a gust of breath like he’s been punched in the gut. “Plush arse, though. Beautiful cock. You really should have been there.” John says it almost conversationally, regretful.

Elton’s heart pitches out of his chest to splat on the floor, even as he feels sick with heat at John’s rumbling burr in his ear, lewd details and low pleasured sighs.

Elton swallows. “I don’t want to hear this,” he says throatily.

John palms his stiff messy cock, raises an eyebrow. “Are you quite sure about that?”

Elton tries to wriggle away but John’s got a vice grip on his prick now, wanking him mercilessly as he speaks, pondering and slow. “Or I think— no, it was on the plane after, you were drowning in a bathtub of gin and I was being treated to a world class seeing-to by one of Julie’s boys. Wicked hands, he had, I was seeing stars before he even licked me open.”

John knows just how to touch him, he always did. His rings are smooth on Elton’s flesh, the slip of metal making him jump when it edges up over the head of his cock as he tosses him off. Elton squeezes his eyes shut; John’s thumb finds its way into his mouth and he bites around it like it’s a stick and he’s getting his leg sawed off in the war. Torturous. John’s finger tastes mineral, sterling and sweat, disgusting on his tongue.

John’s necklaces clink against his chest as he leans over him. “Maybe I should have sent in that one in the corridor tonight, instead of me. So gorgeous, very enthusiastic. You saw his mouth. I know you did. Like a hoover, I can tell you.”

“Why don’t you give it a go,” Elton hisses, and kicks a foot at his shin to get him to his knees, tries to shove him down, suddenly unable to have his treacherous face so close to his own. John stumbles, seethes, “Don’t fucking ever—” even as he goes, crams his cock in his mouth. Elton grips his head, stuffing his fingers through stiff pomade.

“That’s fucking right,” Elton jeers, and his heart pounds crazily, a surge of energy, nearly standing up out of the chair to angle his prick more sharply into John’s throat. “Can’t get you like I can, hm? Can they get you on their cock like this? Pay your fucking bills? No, only me, just me,” he rants, fucking into John’s sloppy mouth. It feels desperate and awful even as he says it, John choking around his cock, and he jabs in too-deep once, twice, and feebly shoots off, jolting and coming terribly. John swallows him down, every drop, ever efficient.

Elton hunches over his head, panting. “Well done.” Pets at him, muzzily. “Robert would have had your head if you stained the suede.”

John, after a moment, stands slowly, wiping a hand over his mouth. He goes to shove his shirt back into his trousers where it’s come out, using his one clean hand, and when Elton looks he sees the placket of John’s trousers laying flat, uninterested. 

Elton’s bluster dribbles away, leaking onto the floor, joining the rest of the mess he’s made. John's face is splotchy and handsome, so handsome, hair wrecked from his grabby hands. “Let me help,” Elton pleads suddenly, snaking his hands around John’s sides to neaten him. John steps back.

Feeling sorry, and sodden with booze, his hand flails, scrabbling to close around John’s wrist. “Come back to mine after the show. I’ll—” He swallows. “We don’t have to get on the road until tomorrow. No balcony, but you’ll die for my view.” Elton attempts a million watt smile, hangs onto his arm, cloying and too needy in a way that he knows is suffocating, knows that John loathes. He never knows how to stop needing it.

Elton’s spent cock hangs out of his spangled costume, as John’s wrist slips from his weak grasp. John’s face is stone as he averts Elton’s eyes. Twists a rag around his tacky hand. “On stage in five.”

The glass crunches neatly under John’s boots. Elton, come drunk and cut down, having gotten what he wanted, sits heavily and watches him go. Doesn’t even bother to shut the door.

**Author's Note:**

> now on [tumblr](https://regulsh.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
